


took a whole lotta love (to hate you, the way I do)

by Aria_Masterson1153



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Cumshot, M/M, Oral Sex, Papa McDavid is infinitely the voice of reason, Papa McDavid puts them in time-out a lot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, but really? I don't think so tbh, extensive use of the word 'fuck', handjobs, hate-sex, the hate-filled adventures of Dyldo Strome and Bitchell Marner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:58:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14939121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_Masterson1153/pseuds/Aria_Masterson1153
Summary: “Just fucking...get me off, what the fuck? Like, do I need to draw you a play or something?” Mitch snarks incredulously as he shimmies out of his pants. And then, when Mitch raises his eyes back up to Dylan he can see the mixture of glee and horror swirling around in his eyes. “Oh my god, you’re a fucking virgin, aren’t you?”“Fuck you, I’m not,” Dylan hisses, sending a stinging smack into the sensitive flesh of Mitch’s thighs, earning a gasp from him.“Playing...fuck...playing doctor with Davo doesn’t count,” he chirps breathlessly as Dylan ruthlessly sucks at his blooming mark on Mitch’s collarbone.





	took a whole lotta love (to hate you, the way I do)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



>   
> So, haha...hah. Remember eons ago when I was telling you about the "Dyldo" MarnStrome fic??? Ta-freaking-da. This lil bitch is packed with so many fucking chirps (that I couldn't bring myself to say about your god-level writing XD) We tryna roast evvverybody out here (insert a clappy boi emoji) So I sincerely hope you enjoy it, bc exams are fucking shit and we all need to treat ourselves now and then ily <333  
>   
>   
> Set during the 2014-2015 OHL season bc these draft class boys <33  
> **Title from 'Whole Lotta Love' by Duffy**  
> 

**Unknown** **  
** _Get a fuckin haircut you slob, showing up for Otters promos like that, you should be ashamed of urself_

Dylan’s at a team dinner when he receives the text message, leaning with his phone beneath the table to hide it away from his prying teammate’s eyes. Narrowing his eyes at the phone, he hastily types back his reply.

 **Dylan**  
_Who is this?_ __  
  
**Unknown** ****  
_You didn’t save my number? Such a fucking tool_ __  
  
**Dylan** ****  
_Okay now that I know this isn’t one of my mom’s friends, cut the fucking shit asshat, who is this?_ __  
  
**Unknown** ****  
_And there’s the Dyldo I know and love_  
  
Ugh, Mitch.   
  
**Dylan** ****  
_Should of known it was you, fucking dickwad_ __  
  
**Douchecanoe** ****  
_Ouch, that super weak chirp just smashed my endless self-confidence to smithereens. Try again loser_ __  
  
**Dylan** ****  
_I don’t even know why I’m responding to your stupidity. Is there a point to these messages, or are you just being your regular idiotic self?_ __  
  
**Douchecanoe** ****  
_Careful Dyldo, I may just take that to heart and get revenge on u in the only way I know how, by fucking destroying ur team sunday ;)_ __  
  
**Dylan** ****  
_Not fucking likely asshole, but hey, feed into whatever bullshit they’re telling you over in London_  
  
**Douchecanoe**  
_Hmm we’ll see about that. Any plans for your sulking after you lose? ;)_  
  
And fuck, that’s Mitch asking him if he has plans after the game, which is a hard no in the regulations of their rivalry. Dylan panics, pocketing his phone and leaving the message on read. And like most things related to Mitch, he actively tries not to think about it, but it ends up consuming his thoughts anyway.

 

\-----/-----

 

“Okay, but like if push comes to shove, can I count on you to pull a Cianfrone and come defend my honour if he crosses the line?” Dylan interrogates Davo seriously, the two of them hunched over in their seats at the back of the bus, secluded away from the rest of their teammates. Because the solid four hour drive from Erie to London is more than annoying enough already, without Dylan’s ceaseless chatter on a certain number ninety-three from the Knights.

Davo has the audacity to scoff, and Dylan whacks him unthinkingly in response. “Dyl, come on,” Davo huffs exasperatedly, “this is getting to be a bit much.”

“You think?” Dylan retorts, settling back into his seat. “Keeping up this rivalry is exhausting, but Marner’s enough of an asshole that I’m willing to put the effort in.”

“It’s like you don’t even hear yourself,” Davo mutters under his breath incredulously.

And, like, fuck that. For some reason, Davo and that jackass are friends, and Dylan’s realistically _only_ beginning to get over the betrayal now. It’s not his fault if Davo is missing enough neurons to actually befriend that shit-disturber.

“I hear myself just fine, and I’m going to hear those weak-ass chirps directed at me the whole game,” Dylan sighs over dramatically. “But that’s fine, I guess I’ll have to go it alone because my  _best_ buddy is leaving me out to dry,” he says with a strong look in Davo’s direction, “but hey, who even needs friends anymore?”

“God, you’re such a fucking drama queen,” Davo snickers at him. “So should I stick up for you? Or just ignore the chirps for what they are; a thinly veiled attempt to cover up the ridiculous amounts of sex you two are having?” His expression is surprisingly genuine, not a hint of the humour Dylan is expecting.

Because what just came out of Davo’s mouth? It’s a fucking joke if he’s ever heard one.

“How very ‘Scholastic Player of the Year’ of you,” he chirps at Davo’s wordy response, completely disregarding the rest of his statement, because what the actual fuck?

“Alright, so we’re ignoring it then,” Davo nods in mock-seriousness, and then giggles at the way Dylan’s jaw drops in outrage.

Him and Mitchell fucking Marner? As fucking  _if_.

 

\-----/-----

 

The first two periods of the game pass in a similar fashion, the Knights completely trouncing them in a targeted attack at their weakened defensive play and goaltending. No matter the offensive power the Otters possessed, it was all for shit if they couldn’t defend the puck in their own fucking end.

It was practically abysmal the way the team were handling the most ‘effective’ line in the CHL, as if they were blushing rookies at training camp. Because of course Hunter wanted the match up of the Knight’s top line of losers against Dylan’s usually more effective second line.

Dylan was fuming, practically vibrating as he sat on the bench, heaving air into his overworked lungs at the end of his shift. His body was thrumming with energy, partially due to the three extra scoops of pre-workout he tossed into his water before the game. But more realistically, it was pertaining to the never-fucking-ending chirps directed at him throughout the game.

One guess as to their small-brained, horse-teethed creator.

As if he didn’t have enough to worry about with fucking containing Marner and his line of idiots (admittedly Domi was pretty chill though,) the idiot just loved to run his mouth at Dylan. Every time there was a scrum on the boards, or a stoppage in play, he had to look forward to another stupid comment from Vaughn’s favourite asshole.

“Hey Dyldo you fat fuck, maybe try lifting your skates off the ice next time, eh? Then you might have a chance at preventing my hatty,” Mitch says to him, smirking as they glide towards the faceoff circle.   
  
Dylan wants to grab him by his sweat-ridden god awful mullet and smash his crooked teeth into the plexi-glass. 

“How about you fucking give that mouth of yours a rest, and focus on the game, Bitchell? We all know your dumb ass can’t multi-task,” he mutters furiously, trying to rein his temper under control.   
  
“But you don’t really want that, do you? You love my mouth nearly as much as I do,” Mitch replies without delay in a perverse sort of delight. “And focus on the game? Let’s be real here, a double-A bantam team could beat you idiots with the way you’re playing.”

The comment stings more than it should, because realistically, Marner’s not too far off the mark. Any chemistry the Otters have had this season has evaporated in the face of the Knights’ first line; but again, it’s only one game of a long season.

Then Marner laughs at his own stupid comment, and Dylan remembers a crucial detail.

It may be only one game, but it’s one game against this  _smug_  motherfucker.

Dylan steels himself, grinding his jaw that little bit harder as he readies himself for another period of this nonsense. He wants to win this game at any cost, and not lose in an embarrassing trade off of chirps between him and Marner.

In his newfound focus, he pretends not to hear the sarcastically encouraging whisper of “don’t fuck it up,” by Marner as they ready themselves in their positions for the face-off.

He’s going to win the Otters this game. Whatever it takes, Dylan will beat the Knights, and wipe off that self-righteous smirk of his as he’s doing so.

 

\-----/-----

 

Turns out, they don’t win the game. In an impressive effort too little too late, they drop the game to the Knights 5-3.

Dylan forcefully rips his eyes away from the triumphant sneer displaying Mitch’s piano teeth, to the soft, disappointed pout of his best friend.

 _Fuck_.

 

\-----/-----

 

**Douchecanoe**

_Hurry ur ass up in the showers and meet me outside of my locker room_

Dylan scoffs loudly at the message, leaning over in his stall as he glares at the notification on his lockscreen, more than a little taken aback. What the fuck is this? A fucking joke? Another opportunity to gloat in Dylan’s face?

Either way, he’ll count himself the  _fuck_  out of this. Because he’s feeling particularly hostile, he opens the message so the read receipt shows, and then locks his iPhone, scoffing again just because he fucking  _can_. And then a moment later, his phone is buzzing against the empty amplification of the wooden bench.

**Douchecanoe**

_Seriously ur the most petty bitch I know, fuck ur worse than girls_

**Douchecanoe**

_Either way, I know ur reading these texts so hurry the fuck up_

**Douchecanoe**

_Unless ur too busy drowning urself in the showers after that game_

**Douchecanoe**

_Or getting pity-fucked by Davo, could be either at this point_

Dylan’s pretty ashamed to admit that he picks up his phone immediately after the first text, reading through the notifications, until he’s forced to open the text conversation because Mitch is a clingy bitch. His frustration ratchets up as each text appears, until his knuckles are nearly white with the way he’s clenching his phone.

**Dylan**

_I’m not kidding, fuck off_

**Douchecanoe**

_I’ll be ready in 5 mins, don’t keeping me waiting_

The message is accompanied by 5 ironic kissing emojis, and Dylan nearly feels sick.

Still, he can’t really describe why he’s hasty in dressing, dodging the wink with loaded unspoken communication that Davo’s sending him across the locker room.

 

\------/------

 

He spots Marner off towards the corner of the Knights’ dressing room entrance, fucking around on his phone. Not surprising is the way his ill-fitting suit hangs off his bony frame, making him look like a middle-schooler at their graduation.

 _Surprising_  is the haircut Mitch is sporting, the horrendous mullet sheared into a messy fohawk. Surprising is the fact that he actually looks…good? It marks the end of Dylan’s fantasies of pulling Mitch around by his mullet in a fight…amongst  _other_  things, but he can’t say the trade off is too bad.

From this distance, he nearly looks like a guy Dylan would consider approaching outside of hockey, which is a terrifying thought in and of itself. And then, of course, Mitch looks up and ruins it, like he always does.

This, the imaginary cropped square of Mitch’s face that is visible through his visor is unmistakable, and his new haircut may be hot, but this is the face of the guy who just mercilessly beat Dylan’s team. It’s the same victorious, smug smirk Dylan saw as he pushed his legs and lungs beyond what he thought they were capable of.

And, obviously, it’s the same voice. It’s always the same fucking voice that haunts him in his nightmares, and massacres him in his desires.

“Oh hi sweetie, great game today, really showed some backbone for a minus 2 performance,” Mitch laughs at his own sarcastic joke, and Dylan really wonders what he did in a past life to find this absolute douche attractive.

“The fuck do you want, man?” Dylan sighs, and god, he even sounds defeated to his own ears. Mitch must be fucking ecstatic.

“Like I asked before, when you left me on read like a little bitch. What are your plans for after the game?” The humour’s cleared from Mitch’s expression, and Dylan knows he’s being serious, but he can’t figure out  _why_.

“Why the fuck do you care?” He can’t help the bitterness that seeps into his tone.

“I think it’s a safe assumption to gather that you definitely aren’t getting pity fucked by Davo tonight, he looked like he wanted to eat all of us at the end of the game,” Mitch ploughs on, not even stopping to respond to Dylan.

 _Imagine how we felt_ , Dylan thinks to himself in his head. The disappointment from Davo was always worse than the anger. Somehow, at the ripe age of 17 Davo managed to already perfect the ‘dad discipline face.’

“So—“ Mitch trails off, and Dylan looks up at him. And then, like a fucking smack across the face from some all-knowing being, Dylan  _gets_  it. Gets why Mitch messaged him, period. When Mitch sees the flicker of recognition in Dylan’s eyes, he smirks and continues his statement. “So I’m willing to host a fuck with no pitying involved, because admittedly I’m too selfish for that shit. You’ll have to put some work in too,” and then he fucking  _winks_ , and Dylan’s jaw audibly drops.

 “You’re fucking joking,” Dylan deadpans, while his mind is painfully straining itself for an explanation of what the fuck is going on.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Mitch has this sort of intensity in his eyes that isn’t unlike what he’s like on the ice.

“You must be, to think I’d ever go for you,” Dylan snorts unattractively.

“As fucking if Dyldo, you’re not fooling anyone. Even if it’s to shut me up, you’ve wanted me on your dick since we met.”   
  
“You’re delusional, I’m way out of your fucking league,” Dylan sniffs haughtily at Mitch’s very potentially true statement.   
  
“Let’s be real, it’s my dignity that will be suffering from such a downgrade,” Mitch volleys right back at him, and fuck, this is definitely not where he saw tonight going.

“Fucking knight in shining armour over here,” Dylan defensively falls back on his sarcasm while he tries to deal with the shock.

“Not yet, the Memmer’s still a good bit away,” Mitch smirks at his own joke, and again, why the fuck did he come out to meet this idiot again?

“This isn’t fucking happening, get it out of your head right now,” Dylan scolds him resentfully, and he’s starting to feel like Papa McDavid. Ugh, two minutes in this idiot’s presence and his head is already fucking splitting.

“Dyldo, we’re fucking doing this,” Marner says emphatically, nodding his head seriously.   
  
“I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with you to be acting like more of an idiot than usual, but uh,  _no_ , we’re fucking not,” Dylan says incredulously, wondering how the fuck this idiot thought up this plan.   
  
Marner says nothing in response, smirking at him like he’s already won. Which, fuck that a million times. Dylan is strong-willed as fuck, there’s no way he’s caving to a gremlin like Marner. 

 

\-----/------

 

In a frankly ridiculously short amount of time, he finds himself cramped in a small janitor’s closet with Mitch groping him at a nearly vicious rate.   
  
Mitch is a lot harder to say no to when he’s not talking, okay? Dylan’s self-preservation takes no blow in admitting to that. He’s especially harder to say no to when he’s not sporting that horrendous mullet, either.   
  
He’s  _nearly_  hot, and boy does his dignity take a hit in admitting to that.

But god, he just never fucking stops  _talking_. Like, Dylan’s genuinely curious as to how there was a point in which he was unable to speak. What a time to be alive.   
  
So, he does what any sane person would: he leans in and kisses the words out of him.   
  
Like anything involving Mitchell Marner, it’s frantic at first, an overabundance of excitable energy translated into the way Mitch can’t concretely decide where exactly he wants to put his hands, drifting up from where he’s palming Dylan’s ass and up his back to the soft hairs on the back of his neck.   
  
Dylan lets him have his fun for a few minutes, before he plasters his body to Mitch’s, lining up every knobby bone of their teenaged hockey bodies that they haven’t quite grown in to yet. It’s as if all of the fight leaves Mitch’s body at the action, his body relaxing at Dylan’s kiss. His hands come to rest loosely on Dylan’s hips, stroking softly over the exposed skin his rucked up dress shirt creates.   
  
Dylan slows the kiss, from a frantic, near bruising kiss to a more languid but no less passionate slide of their tongues. 

“Fuck, when did you get hot?” Dylan mutters bitterly when their lips part, because it’s apparently a thing he’s hung up on.   
  
“Puberty, it’s a thing apparently,” Mitch says, though it’s lacking his usual edge. It sounds nearly like a joke between friends, which throws off Dylan more than he would realistically like it to. “But don’t worry; you were always hot to me.” He says it with such ease, as if Dylan didn’t have to fight off the last shreds of his dignity to admit it to Mitch.   
  
“Yeah?” Dylan can’t help but murmur, not even considering why the fuck Mitch’s justification should matter at all to him.   
  
_He’s just a dick and a mouth that never shuts up_ , his mind unhelpfully supplies, though he can’t really deny that this specific mouth and this specific dick are more than responsible for how into this he is.   
  
Mitch grins, this bright, mischievous thing that sends Dylan’s stomach turning. His desire-induced heavy lidded eyes blink slowly at Dylan before Mitch reaches up to Dylan’s height himself.   
  
It’s softer somehow, his plush lips smoothing the sting from the near animalistic way Dylan was kissing him before. It feels like an answer to Dylan’s question, and fuck if he isn’t hearing it loud and clear.   
  
Mitch’s hand trails up over Dylan’s shoulder and up his neck, creating a tingling path of sensation along the sensitive flesh of his neck. It feels affectionate, maybe even more than that, and Dylan can’t even begin to dissect the way he feels about that. 

Because this is sex, it’s supposed to be  _easy_. It’s so not the time to delve into the way Mitch selfishly commands an embarrassing amount of his limited brain space. The way Dylan feels physically suffocated by Mitch in the best way possible, and mentally suffocated when he’s left to his lonesome contemplations.  
  
“Why ‘Dyldo’? Because that’s what you need to use every time you think about me?” Dylan cockily questions, desperate to regain his mental footing on something he’s more than familiar with; chirping.  
  
Mitch considers his phrase, shrugging as if he can’t really deny it. “And why Bitchell?” Mitch questions breathlessly, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of the underside of Dylan’s jaw. “Because you want to make me your bitch?” His words are surprisingly enticing, and pleasure zips through the underlying nerves of Dylan’s skin.  
  
Dylan smirks at the statement, roughly grabbing Mitch and shoving him against the wall of the closet in response, humming appreciatively when Mitch practically  _melts_  under his towering frame.   
  
“You wanna be mine so badly, you’ll even be my little bitch if I ask you to,” Dylan purrs, his tone matter of fact instead of questioning, because somehow he knows, that Mitch would do fucking anything for him right now.   
  
And Mitch? The searing eye contact Mitch is maintaining with him isn’t exactly denying Dylan’s overconfident statement.   
  
His hand lowers, cupping Mitch through his dress pants, already hard and steady against his loosely tightened grasp. “You’re so fucking easy for me,” Dylan mutters, partially in awe.   
  
Mitch shifts, trying to cover up his blatant gasp with his wriggling. “Like you fucking aren’t,” he harshly pants back, fitting both of his hands over Dylan’s ass and pushing in to line their dicks up for one deliciously grinding thrust.   
  
Dylan can’t help the way his eyes roll back in his head. And Mitch, the fucker, is looking smug as all hell, though he can’t actually get any chirps out with the way he’s harshly panting, as if he can’t get enough air into his deprived lungs.  
  
“Can you just...fucking  _pants_ ,“ is what Mitch incoherently mutters instead of a chirp, pawing viciously at the cinched waist of Dylan’s dress pants.   
  
“How do you want it?” Dylan questions smoothly as he works to pull down Mitch’s pants, their fumbling hands interweaving as they work to get rid of the material barrier.   
  
“Are you fucking serious?” Mitch questions in an incredulous tone. “Just fucking... _get me off_ , what the fuck? Like, do I need to draw you a play or something?” Mitch snarks as he shimmies out of his pants. And then, when he raises his eyes back up to Dylan he can see the mixture of glee and horror swirling around in his eyes. “Oh my god, you’re a fucking virgin, aren’t you?”   
  
“Fuck you, I’m not,” he hisses, sending a stinging smack into the sensitive flesh of Mitch’s thighs, earning a gasp from him.   
  
Dylan takes to roughly sucking a bruising mark into the skin below Mitch’s protruding collarbone. Mitch’s hand buries itself in Dylan’s hair, pulling lightly in a way that demonstrates his inner conflict of pushing Dylan away or anchoring him to his spot.  
  
“Playing... _fuck_...playing doctor with Davo doesn’t count,” he chirps breathlessly as Dylan ruthlessly sucks at his mark.   
  
“You’re actually the biggest fucking asshole I’ve ever met,” Dylan snaps viciously when he breaks away from his task, because seriously, how could anyone be this much of a dick when they were about to get their own sucked? 

“I know,” Mitch sighs dreamily, in the way only true douches can. “And yet here we are.” 

 

\------/------

 

“Fuck you, I get to come first, I fucking won,” Mitch pants harshly into Dylan’s neck, the humidity of his breath making Dylan’s skin clammy in a way he’s not particularly happy with.  
  
He still doesn’t tell Mitch to move though. 

“I think this goes without saying, but if you fucking choke me on your dick I’ll bite it off,” Dylan says conversationally as he lowers to his knees, feeling the strain in his quads after the jumbled chaos of the game.

He’s mostly speaking to Mitch’s dick at this point, grudging in his praise for Mitch’s admittedly really fucking pretty dick. However, when he glances up at Mitch, his eyes are widened, at the sudden realization that Dylan’s actually about to blow him, or at Dylan’s not-so-friendly warning.

“Now there’s a thought,” Mitch mumbles in a more than slightly horrified tone.

Dylan shrugs noncommittally, and gets down to work.  
  
He mouths at the head, because admittedly Mitch is pretty big, and he wants to get him lubed with spit before he tries anything fancy. Because one wrong move and he’ll be forever known as the guy who gave Mitch Marner the worst blowie of his life.   
  
Mitch huffs impatiently, toes curling and un-curling as he waits for Dylan to dip lower.   
  
“Stromer the virgin dick sucker,” Mitch sing-songs, running his fingers through Dylan’s shower-frizzed hair. “Come on buddy, I know you can do better than that,” he says, all fake encouragement. “What, does Davo have a fucking tic-tac for a dick?” He chirps smugly, and fuck, of course he would be  _that_ fucking guy while he was getting his dick sucked.   
  
Truthfully, Dylan’s kind of ashamed at how easily he rises to the bait. He dips his head low slowly, relaxing his throat so he doesn’t choke and become the brunt of all of Mitch’s virgin chirps.   
  
“Yes,  _fuck_ ,“ Mitch moans as his fist tightens in Dylan’s hair, straddling the line of  _damn that feels good_ , and  _what the fuck, are you trying to scalp me_?  
  
In retaliation, Dylan quickly pinches the sensitive skin of the back of Mitch’s knee in warning, inwardly grinning at the pained gasp that his action produces.   
  
There must be some twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he locks eye contact with Mitch, because all Mitch does is breathe out “fucker,” before Dylan pulls off with a near obscene ‘pop.’   
  
“You were saying?” Dylan murmurs self-assuredly as he roughly jacks Mitch with tight strokes that make Mitch’s body tense. Mitch is so tightly plastered to the wall, with the way he’s on the pointed balls of his feet, it looks like he could nearly crawl up it backwards if he wanted to.   
  
“Thank god for Davo’s tic-tac dick,” Mitch breathes out nonsensically, with Dylan snickering into his flexed quads.

“Fuckin’ right,” Dylan responds, wondering how even when he’s having sex Davo still seems to worm his way into the forefront of his brain.

“God, Stromer, fuck I’m not gonna last,” Mitch breathes out when Dylan nips at the cut of muscle down his hip flexors. “Fuck, dude, you should let me come on your face,” the comment is spoken completely deliriously, which is why Dylan chooses to ignore it, even though his jaw drops unattractively.

“Don’t call me Stromer,” he bites back, twisting his hand viciously on every upstroke in a way that he knows will drive Mitch into a frenzy.

“Please, please please, Dyl, let me come on your face,  _please_ ,“ Mitch begs in an overwhelmed tone, his loose hand fisting against the brick of the wall in desperation.   
  
“What the fuck? No fucking way,” Dylan snarks as his hand resumes his nearly lethal pace.   
  
“Please, please,” Mitch has taken to brokenly begging, his head turned up towards the ceiling, the long column of his neck exposed.   
  
“ _Mitch_ ,“ he emphasizes, holding Mitch’s eye contact when his head drops down to stare at Dylan, silently pleading with his eyes. “You’re not fucking coming on my face,” Dylan affirms ruthlessly.  
  
And strangely enough, that’s what does it for Mitch.

 The earnestly venomous words that are practically spat at him, as well as the intense eye contact. It’s nothing out of the ordinary for their rivalry, but Mitch whimpers like Dylan’s socked him in the stomach.   
  
His come streaks across Dylan’s face in wet ropes, and when Dylan opens his mouth in shock some of it sneaks into his mouth as well.   
  
Mitch is looking down at him with a come-dumb grin, soft in the way Dylan’s never seen him be.   
  
“Thanks buddy,” Mitch whispers dazedly, eyes somehow wide yet also heavy-lidded.  
  
Mitch gently runs his fingers through Dylan’s hair, lightly tilting Dylan’s head back so he can get a good look at his face. “Got you good, didn’t I?” He huffs a proud laugh, running his fingers through the mess on Dylan’s face.   
  
He’s disgusting. A disgusting fucking gremlin. Dylan doesn’t know why he’s into this at all.   
  
He stares at Mitch blankly, mouth still open, catching flies at this point.  
  
“Can’t believe I’ve finally done it, who knew the key to shutting you up was to put a dick in your mouth?” There’s no real heat in Mitch’s tone, only a certain fondness that has no place anywhere near Mitch fucking Marner. Neither does the way he’s stroking down Dylan’s hairline, sending shivers down Dylan’s spine.   
  
At once he jerks himself out of his daze. “I can’t believe you, you fucking jackass!” Dylan shouts to Mitch’s amused smirk.

“I mean, it doesn’t look that bad?” Mitch tries, his face too delighted to be eclipsed by the seriousness he’s attempting.

“You’re literally the worst person, ever. I just fucking showered, you absolute piece of garbage,” Dylan fumes, looking around the infernal closet for something to wipe his face off with. Until he spies Mitch’s undershirt, because apparently Mitch is a fucking Mafia Mob Boss wannabe. “Here, give me that.”

Mitch’s eyes flicker down to where Dylan’s pointing, and he sighs. “Dude, I have really sensitive skin,” he groans, shucking the shirt and throwing it at Dylan.

“Should have thought about that before you came all over my face like a 12 year old,” Dylan snaps back, scrubbing his face as best as he can manage before throwing the shirt as far away as he’s able to.

Considering they’re in a little dingy fucking janitor’s closet, it’s not much.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you back,” Mitch promises as he sinks to his knees, pushing Dylan against the wall with the heel of his hand.

And, like fuck no to that.

“Nah, nah, nah,” Dylan tuts, towing Mitch back up by his arms like a toddler. “I don’t want your horse-teeth anywhere near my dick.”  
  
Mitch’s face scrunches up in a pout, and no, no fucking way is it cute at all.   
  
“Dyl,” he whines once he’s upright again. “Please?” He pouts again, as if that’ll change Dylan’s mind.

Dylan’s never been so frustrated, mentally or physically.

“God, Mitch, can you just like, fucking do  _something_ ,” Dylan groans, ready to reach down and finish himself off at this rate.

“Fine, fine, I’m just saying—“ Mitch trails off, spitting into his hand as he bats away Dylan’s hand. It’s filthy, but it’s so fucking good that Dylan can’t at all complain.

“Shut up,” he mumbles half-heartedly, before it’s cut off with a strangled moan.

Because Mitch has really soft fucking hands.

Like he knew that Mitch had soft mitts on the ice, but holy shit, his hands are fucking soft off the ice too. His hands are so smooth they’re nearly feminine, and Dylan’s so into it that it’s bordering on embarrassing; his breathing choked off as Mitch works his dick in tight, closed fist strokes that don’t lessen up in the slightest. He’s using rhythm rather than speed to take Dylan apart, and god, Dylan can barely feel his toes from how tightly they’re curled in his shoes.

“God,” Dylan chokes out, slumping on Mitch as the paralyzing haze of desire wreaks havoc on his limbs.

“Yes?” Mitch responds like the fucking idiot he is, and if his hands weren’t so perfect, Dylan would be fucking gone.

Even now, he’s still considering it.

“Ugh, shut the  _fuck_ up and let me enjoy this,” Dylan hisses back, more than done with Mitch’s bullshit.

And Mitch, because he’s Mitch, completely disregards his statement, running his mouth even more, if it were possible.  
  
“You gonna do it? Come all over my hand? God, I wish my mouth was on you, I’d make it so fucking good, I swear I would,” he rambles into Dylan ear, sounding more affected Dylan is, to be honest.   
  
“You think you can handle it?” Dylan pants, trying for a teasing tone, instead it comes out a little pleading.   
  
“‘Can you handle it,’” Mitch mocks back at him before he sinks to his knees. 

Let it be known that Mitch gives head like he does most things in his life: with a fiercely earnest will to succeed. He’s practically sucking Dylan’s soul out through his dick, which is exemplified in the way Dylan’s body is curling in on itself from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Holy fucking shit Marns,” he gasps out. “Who the fuck do you have in London?”

He can feel the warm huff of air on his dick that is probably Mitch’s amused laugh at his breathless statement. He doesn’t care. All he cares about is trying to hold onto something, grounding himself to anything, because there’s nothing to tether him to the moment other than Mitch’s hair, and unlike _some_ people,  he’s not that guy.

“I can’t—I’m gonna—“ Dylan brokenly murmurs, hoping Mitch will understand what he’s trying to say, because he genuinely can’t force out the reminder of the sentence before he’s coming.

Mitch, because he actually wants to kill Dylan, disregards his warning and takes him as deep into his mouth as he can, working whatever won’t fit with his hand. The smooth, wet warmth of Mitch’s mouth started being too much like a million years ago, so he most definitely can’t deal with it now.

“Mitch, your fucking mouth, holy shit—“

The tension in his body snaps at once, the side of his fist slamming against the concrete wall with the force of it, leaving Dylan with a dull ache in his hand that’ll he definitely worry about later. He feels like he’s been hit by a truck; a 170 pound, lanky ass truck with the intent of sending him into cardiac arrest.

His body slumps forward in exhaustion, every last bit of energy wrung from his body. He feels like he could eat like, 5 plates of pasta. And let it be known, Dylan’s so  _fucking_  sick of pasta.

When he looks down, Mitch is haphazardly wiping at his mouth, sending Dylan an overconfident leer that still makes Dylan bristle. Except now, it’s accompanied by an unexpected clenching of his stomach. Weird.

“See? Told ya,” Mitch laughs, looking like he’s won something other than the distinct honour of having Dylan’s dick in his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dylan huffs, but he still holds his closed fist out for a fistbump that Mitch heartily bumps back

 

\-----/-----

  
  
“Mitch, I’m not even kidding, you breathe a word of this during the next game, any fucking chirp at all, I swear-“ Dylan warns threateningly as they pull their clothes back on.  
  
“Nah, this stays between us,” Mitch reassures sincerely. “Or well, you, me and tic- tac dick Davo,” he amends, knowing the way Dylan and Davo don’t keep secrets.

“Thanks man,” Dylan says as he spies the dirty undershirt tossed in a corner, and his grin widens. He really hopes that loser forgets it.

“But, like, seriously, we play you guys again in Erie, so I’ll see you in a couple of weeks,” Mitch continues, and there’s something in that, something that Dylan doesn’t even want to begin to decipher.

“Cool,” Dylan stutters, unsure of what Mitch actually wants in response to his statement. “Um, I’ll see you then?” He questions, shuffling back towards the door, stifling in this opened can of metaphorical worms.

“What, no kiss goodbye?” Mitch questions with the same ridiculous pout.

Dylan sighs with faux-annoyance, rolling his eyes as he walks back to Mitch, leaning for a quick peck, when Mitch’s arms circle around him, securing him in his spot. Dylan, because he’s sated and therefore infinitely more tolerant, allows himself to be held, even playfully reaching down to squeeze Mitch’s ass.

Mitch chuckles through the kiss, enough to fuck up their rhythm, but like, at least Dylan already knows he’s a good kisser. Or there would be many chirps to pay for that.

Still, they both pull away, and Dylan glances down at Mitch. “So, I’ll see you in Erie, right?” It’s a loaded question from Mitch, because there’s no way in hell that Dylan’s missing his next opportunity to beat the Knights, especially on home ice. But then again, he doesn’t think they’re talking about the game anymore.

“Well, yeah,” Dylan stutters obtusely in response to both aspects of Mitch’s question.

Mitch is laughing, even when Dylan huffs and rolls his eyes again, pushing off of Mitch’s wiry body to walk to the door. Dylan can still hear Mitch’s muffled snickering as the door closes behind him.

And it’s not a particularly funny thing Dylan said, but he’s halfway down the hallway when he realizes that he’s smiling, too.

 

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  I really hope you guys enjoyed this, because it was honestly the most fun I've had writing a fic in a whiiilllleeee. :) Pls, thoughts are awesome! Let's chat about hate-sex with MarnStrome, make my day! <33  
>   
>  **Extras:**  
>   
>  Mitch/ Auston's first meeting at Training Camp with the Leafs:  
>   
> “Hey, you’re kind of like an ostrich. Tall as fuck, with freaky ass judging eyes. Austrich, that’s a fucking sick nickname!” Mitch cheers, smirking at his own intelligence.  
>   
> “Um, no,” Auston interrupts, straight-faced. “My name is Auston, you can call me Auston or Aus,” he states monotonously, with the slightest hint of annoyance carefully hidden under his calm exterior.  
>   
> Well, he’s no fun to rile up like Dyldo is.  
>   
> “Um, yeah, sure, sorry,” Mitch gulps, his face dropping. “Consider it dropped, like thrown out the window or some shit.”  
>   
> “Good,” Auston responds, his face brightening marginally. “Then it’s nice to meet you, man.”  
> 


End file.
